


Trouble in Elvhenan

by quicksloanesilver



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: "fix" in quotation marks, But also, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Culture, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dalish Elves, Dalish Lore, Don't worry, Elvhen Language, Elvhen Pantheon, Elvhenan, Eventual Smut, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Solas is a smooth son of a bitch, a lotttttt of elv(h)en discussion here guys, a son of a bitch, and general intrigue you know, but also some canon divergence as i try to fix bioware's writing, but not plot-necessary so you can skip, is a love language, plenty of flirting, rogue and mage stuff, you know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22327690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quicksloanesilver/pseuds/quicksloanesilver
Summary: Listen, everyone knows that the Solavellan romance hurts. But is fixing it possible?A dive into the difficulty of the relationship between Solas and the Inquisitor, Solas's plans, the whole Trespasser business, and Elvhen politics in general. Picks up at the breakup scene and then wanders increasingly from canon events to give insight into their past relationship (cough flirting cough cough smut) while Lavellan tries to figure out why the breakup happened and how she feels about it. A bit of intrigue (hopefully) in discovering Solas for who he really is, more intrigue in her own ~troubled past~, and even more intrigue when she tries to tie it all together while keeping the world from absolutely falling apart.What will be the fate of the elves? The Dalish? What about the Elvhes with an all-too-conspicuous "h?" And, more importantly, what will be the fate of two elves in particular - one named after his pride, the other shrouded in her secrets?
Relationships: Female Inquisitor & Solas, Female Inquisitor/Solas (Dragon Age), Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Lavellan & Solas, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, but like - Relationship, im still ambivalent as to whether they will end up together, solavellan - Relationship
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	1. Notes and Apologies: A Foreword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FEEL FREE TO SKIP TO THE NEXT CHAPTER TO GET RIGHT TO THE STORY
> 
> These are just ramblings and pointers on my part :) enjoy!

Well, uh... hey guys! As the title suggests, this right here is designated space for me to give you just about every forewarning I can think of. So, you know, be forewarned. 

On TOPIC: while this is a Solavellan fic at its core, it is also a very culture/politics-centered work. I find the lore and general worldbuilding of Dragon Age infinitely fascinating, even if Bioware's writing is... lacking, at times. But in a work so expansive there are bound to be overlaps and missteps, which I aim to smooth over. The Dalish remind me, a little, of the nomadic cultures in Central Asia (when they were still nomadic), which is my favorite, most-underrepresented cultural group out there, explaining my obsession with this fic. That piece being said, I am not, in any way, shape, or form, guaranteeing a happy Solavellan ending here for you guys. Solas is a flawed character (that's what makes him so good!), as is the Lavellan, and the relationship between them is even more complex due to their cultural situation. And full disclosure, I am very much considering a Sera/Inquisitor sidebar here, if it comes into the story well, and might let it take over the Solas relationship at times. We will see. Which brings me to...

On CANON: So, I may or may not not actually be, uh, strictly finished with the game (translation: I am not). And though I have spoiled the ending plenty for myself and try to pore over Dragon Age wikis as much as I can, I admit that there will be canon divergence both due to my purposeful rewriting of the story and due to mistakes I make. I want to work in the universe Bioware has created, but only to a certain extent. Shit will happen, I will get shit wrong, please don't let it ruin shit. If you think there's something canon-related I should pay attention to/incorporate into my work, please please please feel free to suggest it in the comments but I am in no way guaranteeing that I will heed that suggestion. Ultimately all fanfiction does is give different form to existing media, so I don't feel the need to stay strictly within the bounds of the original video game. 

On ELVES: Due to the nature of the fic, I am making a huge distinction between elves and Elvhes (see where the re-writing comes in?). It always irritates me how video games in general conflate species and race while ignoring certain subgroups of said races, whatever. Here's the breakdown: elves with a lowercase 'e' are a humanoid species, like humans, qunari, and dwarves. Elvhes with an uppercase 'E' and an 'h' are the ancient elves of Elvhenan (they are a subgroup of the species, and some might argue a 'race'), just as the Dalish are the modern elves of the Dales. City elves, due to their unfortunate status, do not have a canon name that I know of. I am still holding, however, that the Dalish and the Elvhen speak roughly the same language - the Dalish simply have accent changes and small linguistic differences clan by clan. For the sake of my headaches, though, I am basically using fenxshiral's famous Project Elvhen as the basis for all of my language things. Also, I am trying to round out and create a fuller culture for the Dalish, at least for Clan Lavellan, through cultural inference. I find that kind of thing fun. I am a very strange person. So my Lavellan swears by the Elvhen pantheon and eats Dalish food and has all sorts of Dalish qualities that go deeper than the vallas'lin. 

On LANGUAGE: Again, cred to fenxshiral for providing such an amazing framework to create in. I make up words sometimes. Because I am a huge nerd, I explain my thoughts in translation notes below each chapter. I do try, however, to leave most translations implied in the text, so don't feel the need to constantly be scrolling back and forth. I go really deep. Let's just say it's a godsend that I'm not into Tolkien (sorry boys) because otherwise I would spend literal months trying to learn the Elvish there. Ah, which reminds me: in terms of language, it can be spelled both Elvhen and Elven because of its dual nature: it is both the ancient tongue and the language currently used by the Dalish. More cultural nitpicking!

On SMUT: You will notice the rating is Explicit. _NO SMUT HAS BEEN WRITTEN YET_ but it will exist. I don't think it will be important for plot besides adding further characterization to the elves involved (I choose my words carefully: I doubt humans will be present) and will try to make it easy to skip. Some mild violence will also probably play out, I'm still debating. 

On EDITING: 1. I do not have an editor. I like to think I write pretty clean (and also plenty dirty, tbh), but mistakes will happen. But, 2. I tend to back-edit a lot and am a pretty disorganized writer in general, which means that, at the very least, I should be able to catch my grammar mistakes. I'll keep a log of edits in the footnotes, though, don't worry. 3. That being said, I am not an actual writer. I am a dopey high schooler with a minimum wage job and way too much time on her hands. And the Dragon Age fandom is filled with plenty of really talented, actual writers and also plenty of drama. If you don't like my fic, you can let me know, but know that straight rudeness will be ignored at best. But that's a bit of a downer to end on.... All I want to say is this: don't take it too seriously, and just come along for the ride, you know?

Now, with all of that out of the way, run free! Shathe shiralen and shathe vadirthanim!

_**ELV(H)EN GUIDE:**_

Shathe shiralen: Lit. "happy journeys" according to fenxshiral

Shathe vadirthanim: _shathe_ (happy as an adjective) + _vadirthanim_ (a word I created - see what I did there? - using the root _dirth_ , language, to mean "reading") = happy reading!


	2. And We All Fall Down: Ch. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakups, schmeakups, or are they? How does our valiant hero feel when someone she loves, embarrassingly so, suddenly pulls away from her?

_I was trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me…_

The dim blue glow of the cove, instead of seeming murky and cold as it should have, had drawn soft shadows around his face. Loving, almost, the way it had cupped his rounded cheek, filled the hollows of his eyes with shadow. Making him seem humbled in some way, the sharp edges of his jaw no longer so brazen, the few marks of his age smoothed over, his severity worn thin. No longer Solas but simply ‘las,’ maybe. Las, lah, lath… all words so smooth, like the churned honey candy from when I was a kid. Mavarol’lyrausha. A potential affectionate pet name, really, now that I think about it. Shorten it to just “Mava,” like when you were a kid, let it roll off your lips. Maybe I should have thought about it sooner. 

His voice, however, had still rung true. “Lilting,” I had thought the very first time I heard him speak, “if ever anyone’s speech deserves to be described that way, this is it. I never liked it when people said that about voices, really…” But here, of course, it had been right, all too clear. The way the word bounds forwards, lifts in the first syllable then settles coyly in the second, like some teasing, smiling spirit: _lil_ -ting. The cadence of his voice the exact same, always promising more, a winding creek, then ringing true in the semi-darkness. _You are so beautiful._ The hard consonants were alien on his lips, accustomed to the gentle rise of Elvhen. Another softening fault. And then…

I don’t even want to think about the kiss. Or the removal of the vallas’lin, especially not that. I don’t want to see another mirror for a week. So what if they give me odd stares for skulking around in the shadows, almost always invisible. It’s second nature, or at least it used to be, once. 

Venuralasin, I know I’m being melodramatic. Too melodramatic. Tomorrow there will be more demons to fight, more towns to set straight, more shining glory to bestow upon the Mark. Upon Andraste’s name, upon my own name, to some extent. Stalwart and brave, shining knight in shining armor with shining hand. But now, in the stretching hours between dusk and midnight, it is oh so hard to be anything but a crumpled little shadow pressed into the bedsheets, surrounded still by dim echoes of that cave. 

I can’t believe I told him I loved him. I actually, physically said that, told another elf that I _loved_ him. Me, who famously barely even knows what love is. Me, who is also the premiere political celebrity of our time, almost holy at this point. Walking contradiction, I guess, but I don’t even know which title is worse: miserable screwup who fell headfirst at the earliest sign of affection and got it slammed in her face, or champion Herald brought to her knees by a few words uttered by a simple hedge mage. 

And what about him? He didn’t say it back, that’s for sure. But he also refused to back down. To call it trivial, or foolish, or ill-conceived, a simple summer fling à la Orlesian intrigue. Of course everything would be so… Elvhen with him. _Vhenan_ , he had called me, and it’s such a gross, twisting feeling to think that I might’ve heard that word for the last time, when I used to hear it every day. _Vhenan_ , I should have shored up those little nicknames like precious currency, saved them for this night. _Vhenan._ If only words could be sent to merchants to accumulate interest. 

He had always been so cryptic, so… dismissive, I guess. Maybe that’s why I even fell for him, but what was once an enthralling mystery to discover has now become like an old scab I can’t stop picking at. It aged all too quickly, is crusted and dry and none of the pieces fit right. Why lead me on if he wasn’t truly interested? Why leave me now if he was? He kept on calling it his mistake, as if it was some foolish slip - but again, not foolish, because it couldn’t be that simple, vhenan, and it’s driving me mad. I twist in bed, trying to dig myself into the sheets. All of his kind words had seemed so heartfelt. Were his admonishments less so? And any time I pressed him, he refused to give, only gave me the hollowest, most soul-shattering expression I had ever seen him wear in return. Sorrowful Solas… even at the death of his friend, the Wisdom Spirit from the Dales, I don’t think he had looked so upset. What kind of game was that? Who even does something like that? 

My mind has been chasing itself in circles for hours now like this, and it doesn’t seem like it’ll be wearing itself out anytime soon. So you know what? Fuck it. Fuck _him_. Who said I had to either be the sorry dahn’direlan who fell in love with the wrong guy or the stupid Inquisitor who got bested by a lowly mage? Maybe I’m a sorry Inquisitor who’s too good for the lowly mage she’s still a little in love with. Or the righteous underdog who got fooled by a few sweet words and now seeks petty revenge? My own minds knots in complicated circles. Or something; I’ve got to be _something_. What kind of story will I tell? But I can’t let myself spiral again. Suffice it to say that if I’m going to be a sorry, dumped Inquisitor, I may as well be a drunk one. 

Say what you will about the strange company of fighters and advisors I’ve collected here over the months, but when it comes to drinking, there’s no shortage of partners. Iron Bull, Dorian, and Varric are easy bets, of course. Leliana may be off Nightingale-ing somewhere and Josephine is too busy getting her beauty sleep, but Cullen can usually be goaded into a drink or two. As can Cassandra and Blackwall, if you can put up with his reflective brooding. Sera - literally, not metaphorically - lives in the tavern anyways. Vivienne would come just for the show. As would Cole, but in a much more endearing way. As for Solas? Good thing he doesn’t like to drink much with us anyways, as I have absolutely no desire to answer any questions about him tonight. Just as well that no one will be asking “Where’s Solas?” because my only answer back would involve a lot of good old-fashioned Dalish cursing and an angry dagger or two. Or three. Or just about a whole buttload, depending on how drunk I get. Might as well head- ah. The vallas’lin. 

It is going to be a problem, certainly. No mistake about that; tattoos don’t just evaporate overnight if you scrub them with acid and elfroot enough. But at this point I’m too focused on the prospect of getting liquor into my system so, fuck it, I’ll just open every conversation with “My face. Don’t talk about it,” and conveniently slip away any time someone gets too close to the touchy subject. Just the kind of strained solution I’m known for, so I do exactly that. And even if on my fifth round of “My face…” I’m starting to get tired of talking so much about the face I swore to stay so silent about, in the end it’s worth it because I get absolutely, unimaginably hammered. Most outsiders expect elves to be flimsy lightweights, but in truth we can hold our own even against the heavyset Qunari, leaving the humans and suchlike far behind. Quick metabolisms and all that, thanks to the old Imperium and their need to “speed us up,” so to speak. One round of ale becomes two becomes three (expect for Dorian, who stalwartly refuses to touch anything except wine and the occasional nip of honeymead because his Tevinter tastes are simply too far elevated for us common folk) and then out come the spirits and the party really kicks into full gear. Someone even scrounges up a flask of Dalish thai’shamanise - where they could have found it, I have no idea - but downing shot after shot of the sharp, sweet liquid pulls me together like no shem liquor could. 

I bask in the white heat of the party, willing myself to focus only on the flickering lanterns in the rafters and the loud, swirling chatter around me. Look above, stay above, not below, not in the darkness of that Fade-touched cave. Here, Blackwall, Cassandra, Cullen, and Iron Bull, aided by well-placed laughter and compliments on Dorian’s part, trade battle hymns while Sera and Varric try to match story for outrageous story, Red Jenny vs. the great Master Tethras. A spark of lightning erupts from the former table in a brilliant display of color, much to Cabot’s restrained alarm as Dorian throws his head back, laughs, then bows to sparse applause. Cass can barely hide the thin discomfort on her face, though, which sends Sera and Varric into a fit of laughter as they move on to their new favorite subject. Chances are she’ll having some six-legged and unpleasant set loose in her bath by sunrise tomorrow; Sera just can’t help herself, after all. Here it’s all laughter and joy and the sharp, grinding warmth of too much drink. And it’s true that everyone knows, in their own, tentative way, that this impromptu rager has something to do with the missing marks on my face. But they’re wise (or wary) enough to steer clear of the subject and appreciate good company while it’s being handed to them. Except for Cole, of course, who keeps trying to pull me into the corner and take the pain out of me as if its some recalcitrant splinter or something, but I keep waving him away; besides, by the end of the night I’m so drunk that my eyes begin to cross when I look at him, at which point I’m hardly a ready patient. 

And in those early, pre-dawn hours, I sit at a table with just Dorian and Iron Bull, the only two not yet drunk enough to be passing out in their beds. Or bed, probably, in this case. I smirk into my half-empty flagon, then quickly regret it as I begin to feebly long for what they have. Which is altogether stupid, by the way, the whole Bull-Dorian thing never really made complete sense to me. Nevertheless, Sera had just clapped me on the shoulder and told me to “Cheer-en up, squish-face,” she’s off to “do the whole g’night thing,” which is her drunken way of sending off, I guess, and I’m starting to feel an awful lot like a third wheel. 

Iron Bull laughs, deep and loud, at some witty Dorian remark. When he’s finished, silence settles. I take another long swig. 

“…It seems that our Dalish companion may be starting to feel awfully left out.” I snort at Dorian’s purposeful use of “Dalish.” Ever since the dreaded elf vs. Tevinter conversation a few weeks ago he’s been using the term more liberally than that horrid crystal grace concoction he puts in his hair. 

“So, Boss, you want to tell us what this is all about now?” Iron Bull agrees. 

“Hmph.” Silence seems the best course, now. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one to turn down good ale and company when I can get it, but few throw together a shindig like this without some hidden reason,” he rumbles. 

“What is it? Trouble in Elvhenan?” Dorian titters, and stops short when I look at him sharply. “Oh… welll,” is all he says. Yeah, that’s right. Well. 

“Shit. That’s rough, kid.” Funny how quickly you can go from “Boss” to “kid” when it comes to Bull. 

“I’d prefer to just continue my drunken stupor and not talk about it, if you don’t mind,” I slur into my glass, but it seems that I’ve finally started hitting up against the unavoidable. 

_I was trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me,_ and the skin on my cheek had grown alive under his touch, somehow more literally than before, particles of the Fade trapped between his hovering fingertips and my skin. I like to imagine them sparking in arcs of fizzling lightning, briefly shining blue and edged with pink, like Dorian’s magic trick a few hours before. 

“I’d prefer it if the mighty Inquisitor got through the night in one piece,” Bull countered… “Especially when she’s the one filling my coffers at the moment,” and finished. 

_You are unique. In all of Thedas… someone who could draw my attention away from the Fade…_ I press my head into my hands, pushing back the tears. 

“I promise one little romantic tryst isn’t going to be the end of me, Bull.”

“From the looks of it, ‘little romantic tryst’ isn’t doing it justice. Take it from someone who’s had plenty himself,” Dorian says. Then softens, seeing that he certainly hasn’t made things better by pointing out my heartbreak, “But you’re right, of course. He hardly deserves company even half as lovely as yours.”

_You are so beautiful._

“Hmph. Buck up, kid. You’ll out- _do_ him yet.”

“Maker, I hope you don’t mean that literally.”

“You know I always do, Dorian. I always do.” He laughs, and their chatter uneasily fades into the background again as I slide deeper. 

_…a rare and marvelous spirit. In another world-_ Another world, another world… He had been so kind, so heartfelt. Deeper into the bottom of my glass, as if the tone and quality of the ale could tell give me my answers, the way certain seers in Rivain are said to find secrets at the bottoms of teacups. Was I outraged or heartbroken? Should I play the sick puppy? Or throw my heart back in the gutter, “sharpen it into a cutting edge,” or whatever bullshit he had said, and use the edge to stick him right between the ribs, watch him bleed- And there I go again. Playing the melodrama, the fool. Not a good look, certainly, and an even more certain symptom of unneeded sobriety. Buck up, kid. Down a few more gallons of mavash and maybe you’ll be drunk enough to stop the pacing, stop thinking altogether. Just a few years ago, that kind of thinking could have gotten you killed, gutted on the spot. So just sink deeper still…

_Vhenan_ , I echo, and then promptly pass out.

_Vhenan…_ it sounds again and suddenly I am in Solas’s study, idly rifling through the papers on his desk as I watch him paint. He doesn’t mind; he probably likes the attention, really, just indirect enough for his tastes. My last bit of consciousness desperately checks that this isn't, in fact, actually him, that at least his ego isn't so gargantuan as to let him continue approaching me in my dreams. With those fears assuaged, I continue calmly looking through his notes, copied verses and notes scrawled in a smooth, tightly cropped hand. The way he writes it, v-h-e-n-a-n, the ‘v’ leaning into the swooping ‘h’ and gliding ‘enan,’ hits me like the rush of something distant and unknown. A word I hadn’t heard in a long, long time, since mamae’s fingers gathering my hair into small, neat braids and the sun settling in the ha’hren’s clear eyes, and even some time before, some time golden and flowing and somehow once-real. 

Dimly I realize that Solas has stiffened where he stands at the wall, a half-finished curve before him. Sweeping yet precise, like his handwriting. Brush still wavering before he resumes the measured stroke, the soft drag of paint against stone. 

“Sorry,” I murmur, “It’s been a while since I saw the word.”

He pauses again, brush now idly hanging by his side, his fingers tense around it. “Yes,” he says, and again resumes his work. I hadn’t even realized I had said it out loud. In the quiet still of the rotunda, the syllables had probably been deafening. The heat in my ears rises. 

Briefly I wonder if that was what lack of composure looks like on Solas, a meditated pause, perhaps the briefest flush of pink at the tips of his ears, fingers loosely gripping around the handle of a brush. The gentle pressure behind his voice. If I was more daring, more certain, I’d test him out, spread my mana out before me-

Then the room begins to fill with blue, and for a moment I recoil, try to push the raw thought of the cove away. But the aching light grows stronger, engulfs and, I realize, pushes against me, licking like flames and ocean tides. Solas and the rotunda and the soft scratch of his painting dissipates, falls away. Maybe it’s all being engulfed by veilfire. Maybe it’s supposed to hurt, though it doesn’t…? Sylaise, why must so much of the ancient and occult look the same…

And then the whispers come. Pushing, rolling, splitting apart and clotting together as I am lifted ever-upward by the stream of light. Increasingly maddening, they keep trying to whisper scattered phrases into my ears, like being surrounded by a million Coles. Even during the day, the voices of Mythal’s priests had given me a headache, a buzzing pressure I couldn’t ignore, but now, as my speeding hangover grows in some fragmented pocket of the Fade, I feel, truly, like my head is splitting apart. With a very dull rock, perhaps, or a heady shard of ice. And the noise of thousands of years of dead elvhes climbing into my skull certainly isn’t helping. 

Until they’re gone, and suddenly I don’t have a distraction from the pain anymore, or maybe whatever was keeping me there has finally decided to let me go. I sit up in my bed, and there’s no sign of Mythal’s (not-so) gentle touch except for a weary aftermath, sitting clearly in my mind: 

_He isn’t like the others._

And here I had naively thought that comatose, alcohol-induced sleep was supposed to be dreamless. Or free from scary, prophetic messages from the beyond, at the very least.

***

**_ ELV(H)EN GUIDE:  _ **

In order of appearance:  ****

Solas: lit. translates to pride, of course, if you didn’t know that yet then congrats! I’m glad I was the one to bring this bit of meta-game to your attention :)

Las: hope, ambition

Lah: voice (very fitting, no?)

Lath: love, but with some interesting connotations I won’t get into here (even _more_ fitting, though!)

Mavarol’lyrausha: _Mavar_ (solid, thick) + _olan_ (adjective -> verb; my own new suffix) + _ast_ (“characterized by”) + _lyrausha_ (my new word for honey) = honey candy. This one got screwy because I was trying to transform “hard” into “hardened” well, and eventually had to make up a new suffix for personal use that transforms an adjective into a verb (i.e. from “hard” -> “to harden”; “sweet” -> “to sweeten”; “white” -> “to whiten”). I also made up a word for “honey” that is less sexual than fenxshiral’s iteration, though I played around with a lot of options - bee’s syrup, bee’s gold, golden syrup - but food honey seems such an essential concept, and probably an early part of the Elves’ diet, that I thought it deserved its own word. 

Venuralasin: _venuralas_ (god, deity) + _in_ (plural for most, all, innumerable)

Vhenan: ah, the word we all know and love. Lit. “my home” or “my heart,” very personal, very endearing, with multidimensional meaning 

Dahn’direlan: a word fenxshiral created that lit. translates to “one who punches bees”: an idiot, moron, that I loved so much I just had to include it

Thai’shamanise: _thai_ (fruit) + _lin_ (diminutive suffix) + _asha_ (“characterized by”) + _manise_ (whisky, strong spirit) = berry spirits, berry alcohol, which I imagine is reserved for special occasions due to its sweetness

Shem: Elven slang for human, ofc

Mavash: ale

Mamae: the way the elves say mama, obvs

Ha’hren: wise teacher, leader of the clan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually hate using flashbacks so copiously as a literary device, but in romances like these I think they can actually work. Yes, I recognize how annoying they may be, but I think cutting back to past flirtations and the exciting honeymoon phase can keep the relationship feeling fresh while still slowly burning the drama, yknow?
> 
> Also, I know that I'm really doing myself in by name-dropping the title so early, but I am soooooooo bad at titling things and it just... happened? Please forgive me.
> 
> Lemme know what you think. It's been a while since I posted any writing online and I'm dying to hear your thoughts, good and bad.


	3. Usual Suspects: Ch. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Facing a brave new day and trying to find our mystery man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, my classes begin tomorrow (don't ask; winter break is huge for some reason) so I wanted to get this out real quick while I still had the time - sorry if it isn't as polished as it could be. Happy reading!

When I drift back into sleep I am again in the rotunda, in an all-too comfortable memory of it. I’m seated on the couch to his right, curled against the wall, all the stone still bare. He’s skimming over a piece of Elvhen I had found, the truly ancient kind of Elvhen, along with my garbled translation. What I had pored over for hours he would finish in minutes, I know, but something in me always wants to present to him at least an attempt at an interpretation. I’d like to think it was my own pride that pushed me so, but maybe to some extent it was really his. 

For so long, I had known him like this. Exactly like this. A perfect profile cut against the warm gray stone, neck artfully arched over a piece of text, a slight low angle making him seem so solid, real. The distant hiss and scream of the veilfire, flickering green over his skin. From this far away, sitting by the wall, it had always seemed like a gentle, colored aura, a slight green mist outlining the sharp lines of his face. His brow sloping to his nose, which slanted in a smooth line to his lips, two etched lines brought together in contemplation, the pleasingly sharp point of his chin, his jaw… My eyes would wander up his ears, the way their tapered points gave him his grace, yet also gave him a haugty, well, _prideful_ quality. His eyes, intent on the text before him. His fingers, long and slender, the fingers of a skilled artist or musician, the gentlest touch holding unknown strength behind it. It was always his fingers that my gaze held onto the most, the way his hand rested on his desk. The pads of his fingers pressed into the page with a silent, coiled power. I paid tribute to it every time I found a new string of Elvhen, no matter how little or how much, and brought it for his discerning gaze. In these tiny snippets of time, just a few minutes every day, I had grown to know his face like the back of my hand. That was how I first met Solas, how I had truly met him, sitting at the far edge of his study as he worked. 

I stay there for as long as I can, enveloped in the memory, tracing all of his lines anew. My fingers ache to paint him, almost, to sketch and create and give reverence to his image, all sweeping lines and smooth angles, even if I’ve never picked up a brush before. A quiet want. And then, once I slowly start to feel the air around me grow more shallow, the fullness of my consciousness rising upwards, I let the memory fall. Daylight calls, and I crumple the memory between my fingers, feel it fold underneath them like paper. That image of Solas, stuffed down in and over itself, erased, rejected, forgotten. Let it be destroyed, if only for the day. 

The bracing morning light sharpens both my headache and my sense of self-respect; my dreams may now be plagued with memories of him - I have a feeling he won’t be leaving them any time soon - but at least during the day I can banish all of those slippery feelings to some further, darker corner of my mind. Be strong, resilient again, myself again. Of course, the role of valiant Inquisitor still doesn’t feel quite right to me, but at least it lets me distance myself from… well, pretty much everything. Except demons, I guess, and horrific battle injuries. That pain, however, is much easier to shoulder. 

Still, the poorly masked looks of shock as I, the Inquisitor who once almost literally had "I am Dalish" written in permanent ink across her face, walk through the courtyard without a single mark left on me are hard to stomach. And the pitying look Dorian shoots me once I get to the tavern doesn’t help, either. Or the way Iron Bull moves to clap on me on the shoulder and not-so-discreetly pass me some counter-hangover mixture once I sit down with my breakfast. Or, _especially_ _or_ , the way Sera instantly falls into the seat in front of me and waves her hands expectantly into my vision. 

“Hey, Razzie. Hello. Your face, yeah? What happened?”

“Sera…” I look over the vial Bull gave me. The liquid inside seems to squish more than proper liquid should. 

“Your elfy dealies, all gone. Poof. Puff. Or was it more like ‘splat?’ Now it’s all… naked,” she giggles, “I didn’t bother you yesterday because, dunno, didn’t seem right.”

“And today is different because…?”

“Seems right?” 

Time to deflect. I wave at Bull, and the liquid sloshes/squishes as I raise it above my head. “And what exactly is this supposed to be, chief?”

“You really want the details?” He laughs as I grudgingly grimace and crack it open. Unnatural hangover medicine or no, my headache is taking no prisoners today. 

“Yoo-hoo. Don’t leave the question, Raz.”

I turn back to Sera and give her a measured look, a smile back. It feels weak, but hopefully I can pull it off: “Solas took ‘em.”

“What, just snatched them off your face?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” I double down on the smile, wearing the lie. 

“Hah. Well, good riddance, right? I mean, they were covering up your face anyhow. Now it’s alright. What did he want them for, anyways?” Her eyes widen with glee. “It’s not like a… thing, right? Like a ‘you and him after hours with no knickers on’ kinda thing, yeah?”

I can’t help laughing, even through the low feeling that she might be kind of right, actually, “Sera!”

“What? Just thought I should ask… Oh, hey, have you met the new recruit yet?”

“The new….?”

“Showed up this morning, yeah. All odd-like. Probably alright, but I don’t like the way he stares.”

“You don’t like the way _anybody_ stares.”

“Hah. You’re probably right. He’s down in the Great Hall, I think. Got some super secret information for you important-types in the War Room, looks like.”

“Seems all of the information around me is important nowadays.”

“Well that’s what you get for ripping through the sky, all shiny and shit.”

“In my defense, I wasn’t actually the one ripping it open…” Comfortably distanced from the vallas’lin question, I ease into the chatter, trying to mimic Sera’s relentless energy. 

I spend the rest of the morning unsuccessfully trying to avoid the message from last night. _He isn’t like the others_ … Yeah, well, who is? Especially in this place: I’ve got a Vint mage batting eyes at a Qunari the size of a house, the kind which any of the dwarves on the team could probably fit in just fine. Apostate mages fighting alongside Seekers. An’banal, I’ve got an actual _spirit_ fighting for us, for gods’ sakes. A spirit. _Fighting._ And I’m Dalish, of course; can’t forget that. There’s nothing more alienating than a set of pointed ears and a load of shem guilt. 

But that isn’t the right approach, of course. The instructions that came with the Well of Sorrows may have been vague, but it was clear that “infinite wisdom” probably went beyond stating the obvious. So, new approach: who here could be dangerous? Can’t be trusted? Bull, Cole and his spirit-ness, Dorian… Being surrounded by fighting machines with dark pasts doesn’t make answering that question easy. Ben-Hassarath definitely keeps you on your toes, though, and Bull is about as alien as it gets. Cole is certainly strange, but I try not to think of him as a menacing presence… But again, telling me that any one of those men is “not like the others” isn’t exactly new information. So who’s left? …Oh. 

Of course. Blackwall, Cullen, any other male member of the Inquisition…. and Solas. 

Careful, now. Rushing at these conclusions headfirst is what gets you killed in unpleasant ways. Es ith manean, es silaim varghest: he who sees the fish, misses the varghest. Still, it wouldn't hurt to file away the names back into that same dark corner of my mind, where they can grate against my thoughts for a little longer. Blackwall, Cullen, Solas, and of course Bull and Cole can’t be discounted completely, either. Dorian seems a safe bet, though. 

It doesn’t feel like I’ve gotten very far, really, but my suspicions have been raised, and it feels comfortable, almost, to have that caution again. To know that I’m looking out for someone, trying to piece them apart. Besides, it’s hard to ignore the warning flags planted around Solas, so he’s quickly becoming a premiere suspect. The mysterious past, the seemingly endless knowledge, the unusual way he carries himself, the aloof nature, the way he’s just like a scab on some uncomfortable place on my elbow, hard to reach, even harder to pick apart. 

Es ith manean, es silaim varghest. I will wait. 

I head to the War Room, reasonably certain my brain’s fulfilled its quota on chasing itself in circles. If there’s one thing I know, though, it’s that I don’t trust a single man I lay eyes upon. 

And then I balk, stopped in my tracks, because there is one man, sheepishly milling in front of the corridor leading to the War Room who I definitely, absolutely, 100 percent do not trust. As I watch in mild horror, Cullen walks up to him, probably on his way to the meeting, and… stops? Shakes his hand and introduces himself? And - Venuralasin, Fen’harel take me, Ghi’lan’na’in then asa - he lets him in. Leading him to the War Room. 

Not only am I dodging one shifty infiltrator, I’m dodging _two._

**_ELV(H)EN GUIDE:_ **

An’banal: hell, the void

Shem: slang for human 

Es ith manean, es silaim varghest (aka, my first stab at an Elvhen sentence): _Is_ (singular neutral pronoun); _ith_ (conjugation of itha, to see); _manean_ (fish); _silaim_ (silaima, to forget); _varghest_ is itself 

Venuralasin: gods

Fen’harel: everyone’s favorite trickster god ;)

Ghi’lan’na’in then asa…: taken from fenxshiral, who created a longer phrase that sums up to Ghi’lan’na’in stomping you to death with her hooves. Kinda. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bioware: Drinking from the Well of Sorrows will give you **~infinite wisdom~** UwU  
> Me: Points to Mr. Not-An-Ancient-God Solas  
> Bioware: Wait no not like that
> 
> Could not resist dropping Fen's name in there ;) I know the chapter was a bit slow but I'll try my best to heat things up soon. Also, Sera is so fucking hard to write. She just doesn't make sense, yeah?


	4. Smoke and Mirrors: Ch. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mystery man brings a new, troubling problem to light. Or does he? Who knows where the truth lies...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna be upfront with y'all right here and now: I don't have an outline. I'm shit at that kind of thing. But hopefully things don't completely fall apart when the going gets tough?

“…And may I introduce our esteemed Inquisitor, the Lady Rasuvian Lavellan herself.”

“Ah, a pleasure.” Wearing a rough Ferelden accent like a limp hat, he bows unnecessarily deep. From below, still bent over: “Ser Sathrian, at your service.” 

Great. Yet another fake name to keep track of. “Ser Sathrian” here is probably thinking the same. 

He straightens up, grins. “If I may, that’s a very unusual name you have. Ras-uv-ian… How did you come by it?” Asshole. 

“How does anyone?” 

“Of course. You must have had a very imaginative mother, my Lady Herald. Or was it your father?” I try not to scowl too deeply; though he speaks with the light and unassuming tone of friendly chatter, his words cut deep. 

“The former.”

Leliana coughs to interrupt the silence that falls as I refuse to back from his pointed gaze, and he from mine. I feel his magic playfully snake around my waist, where my own mana is coiled tight and hidden, and I nearly flinch. “I understand you have news for us, Ser Sathrian?” she pushes. 

“Yes, Lady Nightingale. Inquisitor, as I explained to your advisors here, I have considerable holdings spread across all of Thedas” - that’s certainly a word for it, for sure - “and have received reports of… troubling circumstances.” He smiles, a touch too apologetically. 

“Troubling circumstances?”

“I do not wish to sound foolish, Lady Rasuvian.” My chosen name glides for a touch too long on his tongue, oil slick. “But my men report… How else to say it? They sense issues with time.”

“Don’t we all? Get to your point, Sathrian.” Ghi’lan’na’in, I hope I’m not coming across as excessively rude. I hazard a glance at Josephine, her lips pressed tightly together. Apparently I’ve proven myself too good at the Game in the past, and this behavior now… But steeling myself against him is more difficult than anyone can imagine. 

“Hah, of course. I meant, more precisely, the passage of time. The flow of it.”

His magic winds further, and I can almost catch the teasing wink of his left eye, the slight nod, the _Now, aren’t you happy to see me?_ in my mind. A brief silence as my advisors wrangle with his statement, and I wrangle my glowering stare. 

“You mean time travel?” Cullen carefully cuts in. 

“Something of the sort, yes.”

“Could this be Alexius’s magic?” The alarm is clear in Josephine’s voice.

“It should have been contained to the single rift Dorian and I went through. Which we closed.” 

“But what if…”

“It bears investigation, surely. Magic is not always as stable as we would like to believe,” Leliana calmly states. 

“Agreed. I would not trouble the Inquisition if it weren’t a serious matter.” Again the sneaking glance towards me, his eyes too obviously painted with glee. He’s got me in a corner, and he knows it. I force a smile. 

“Then we will look into it, of course. Leliana, let’s pay a visit to Ser Alexius in our dungeons. Maybe he can illuminate the matter further. Cullen, we should prepare an on-site inspection… If that’s quite alright with you, Sathrian?” 

He nods, ever compliant. “Of course.”

“Hm. Thank you, Sathrian. For your service and for your _honesty_ in bringing this matter to us.” Perhaps not my most thinly veiled threat ever, but at least I know he must get the message. 

“The pleasure is all mine, Lady Herald.” And I get his. 

I hate the synchronicity with which we both hang behind, letting the advisors leave the War Room first. The instant they are out of earshot, I push him into some darkened corner of the hold. And he lets me, allows me, all too happy to let my anger wash over him. 

“Nice to see you again, T-” he begins. 

“What in the Void are you doing here, _Sathrian_?” No way am I letting him call me my real name. I’m not hearing it, not today, not after this long, not from him. He quirks an eyebrow in turn. 

“You look different, _Rasuvian,_ ” he hisses. 

“Changed my hair.”

“Clearly. And here I thought you were all ‘Dalish do, ‘till death do us part…’” He smiles as I flinch, eyes scanning my face. “Still raw, is it?”

“I don’t need to hear it from you.” It doesn’t come out as strong as I had hoped. “What’s your play, coming here?”

“Maybe I just wanted to catch up with an old friend.”

“‘Catching up’ usually involves less threats and deception, or so I’m told.”

“You have the wrong kinds of friends, da’len.” Again, he manages to catch me off guard as his magic winds around my shoulders. He lets it shimmer, pulling more mana into it, tinging the air with the smell of ozone. Magic shouldn’t feel this slimy, and yet his somehow does. “I wasn’t lying about the time rifts, anyways.”

“Of course you weren’t.”

“No, I’m quite serious on that front. Getting to see you get all riled up is just… a positive side benefit.” The magic squeezes, shudders, almost, then jerks me to the side as he slides past me. He salutes, winking at me for real this time, “It’s been an absolute pleasure, Inquisitor.”

The bath I make myself is cold. Though I know the bottom of the stone tub has long been covered in the hastily written runes I’ve hidden there, small and inconspicuous enough to be cloaked by the stone, today I’m too tense to let myself heat the water more than a few tolerable degrees. Hair wet and plastered to my back, I shiver lightly. Of course that two-bit criminal rat would show up today. Of course he would try to push me. He was always explosive, often in ways more literal than I would have liked, gold tooth glinting in shadow, metal knuckles meeting bone in dim alleyways, the smell of burning buildings mingling with ozone in the air. And Solas...

I shiver again, and suddenly I remember our last night at Crestwood. Some of the villagers let us stay in spare bedrooms when we had stayed out after dark for too long, exhausted after clearing out the huge Fade rift over drowned town. After pestering us for stories of wyvern-killings and demon-slaying and us happily obliging over good food and warm drink, the family finally let us retreat to bed. I had climbed into the bath, a flimsy little thing filled with tepid water; still, I was infinitely glad to feel the dirt and grime begin to fall off my body, to finally relax after such an arduous day…

“Allow me, vhenan,” he had softly hummed, and suddenly the water coursed with incredible heat. It was as if I had plunged into the hot springs at the Exalted Plains, the warmth piercing through my body as I gasped, for a moment everything alight with fire and water, and I couldn’t help shivering at the pleasure it made me feel. 

“Too much?” The worry in Solas’s voice was impossible to mask, his hand quickly coming down to my shoulder.

“No, not at all…” I happily sighed, let the water lick at my neck as I turned my head towards his forearm, nuzzling against it. It was pure bliss, to feel the last strands of his magic still emanating around me, the warmth enveloping my body, his hand brushing my damp hair off my forehead as he almost involuntarily hummed his approval...

“Heat, hot, hotter. Rising, pushing, soft and hard. I want to feel this forever, need-"

“Cole!” 

“Yes?"

My voice squeaks, almost, and the water splashes. “Privacy?"

He finally seems to take in his surroundings, take in me. All of me, that is. "I didn't know there were bits underneath the clothes," he muses, and I can't help groaning. 

“Just… Why are you here?" Let's try to forget how fucking unnerving this is. "Talking to a humanized spirit with nothing on while you soak in a pity bath” kind ofunnerving. 

"I tried to talk to you last night. You wouldn't open."

"Do I look particularly open to you now?”

His eyebrows furrow slightly as he hazards,”Yes? At least, you were before..."

"Cole, it’s... a not-spirit kind of thing. Please tell me you aren't coming into everyone's bathrooms like this."

“There's a part missing of him, too, you know." He pauses. "His hands are cold…"

I groan. Talking to him feels like shouting at empty wind sometimes. Most of the time. Like muttering to shadows in the forest when it starts to go dark, weaving conversations out of the waning light...

“…Sitting tight on the forest floor, hard tree behind my back, fingers trembling against the chilling air-“ For Void's sake. 

“Could you please just stay out of my head for a few days? Just a few-“

“But he misses you. You miss him. Why is it so cold?” he keeps pushing. 

I take a deep breath. “Sometimes things happen, Cole.”

“But-“

“No ‘Buts.' Shit happens. All you can do is adapt and change course.”

He grapples with the statement for a moment, then says, “it hurts." It's almost a question. 

“Yes.” And he seems to take that in, tries to process it. Do spirits not ache like this? Probably not Compassion, I suppose, but the others... I realize with a jolt that he's still there. It really is hard to forget that he's in the room sometimes. I fix him with a look. 

"Cole, with all due respect?”

"Yes?"

"Please leave." He nods, then disappears in an eerie cloud of smoke as he's wont to do. Assured that he really has left the room, I sink back into my bath, closing my eyes. And no matter how I try to keep it at bay, I can't help remembering the ghost of Solas's touch on my shoulder, the warm softness of his fingers on my jaw, shivers running down my spine. Even as I turn my thoughts back towards the false Sathrian, their imprints begin mixing together, the grease and smoke of Sathrian underneath Solas's insistent touch, the tension in my chest turning over. 

It's going to be a long night. 

**_ELV(H)EN GUIDE:_**

Rasuvian: _ras_ (smoke, fog; one of the components of the Elvhen word for “shadow”) + _u’vi’an_ (mirror, I suspect: from el’u’vi’an) = smoke/shadow mirror

Sathrian: common elven name meaning “loving soul in a noble struggle” 

Da’len: either an affectionate nickname for someone smaller/younger than you in some way or a more formal way of establishing hierarchy 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cole: ah, friendship. You, him... and the giant wall you've built between yourselves :)
> 
> Don't like the fact that I've made such a big deal out of not revealing Sathrian and Ras's true names yet; I just feel that keeping track of four names for two characters is a bit much, especially now when it doesn't really matter. Will probably fiddle with it later.


	5. All Lies, All Lies: Ch. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontations and escalations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I finally finished Trespasser. And, uh, holy shit. Who cares about enemies-to-lovers, Bioware really threw us back to lovers-to-enemies, huh? I'm here for it. So here for it. You don't even know. 
> 
> The fact that I'm basically positing for Dread Wolf Rises here is kinda sucky, though it does seem like the next game will really draw away from the Solavellan romance since it's heavily implied the Inquisitor won't be the main character of the game. Conclusion: I don't care about the plot here that much anymore (sorry, full disclosure) so let's just have some fun with Solas and the rest and gain some closure about Trespasser, yes? Is everyone okay with that? 
> 
> Anyways, shorter update while I mull where I'm actually going to take this story from here. I know people prefer longer chapters over short ones but it just works better for me to get my thoughts out in bits and pieces like this.

When I dream, I am again in Solas’s rotunda. As much as I hate to admit it, the place eases my heart, lets me breathe free again. I look around, grateful. 

Solas's rotunda, but no Solas. Peculiar, definitely, but at least then I know…

With an exultant sigh, the kind of loud, reverberating thing I would be too embarrassed to let out anywhere but the Fade, I throw my hands upwards and let magic pour out of them in pure, bounding, fizzling streams. Barely even spells, anymore, just pure mana being fed into the world around me, bouncing and arcing in the light. The air around me clouds with it, shimmering an increasingly stronger green, so vibrant and clear that I start to laugh, laugh so loud and full and so, so very _alive_. Ir inas, I think. Ir inas, with the leaves and trees and the light of released mana all around me-

But something’s not right. There’s a dampness, pushing down on me, and my magic starts to fizzle and spark and it all grows out of control all too fast. Too, too fast, though I barely notice it at first, not until I hear the sound of masonry cracking and splintering and the stones of the rotunda start buckling outwards in ways that stones definitely shouldn’t. The darkness jabs now, twisting the released magic, and I notice that it shimmers with an eerie light, darker than dark for it, like oil on bottomless water, and all I can think of is the Void, Anbanal, where Fen’Harel can send you with darkened fur and darkened eyes and darkened growl and darkened grasp. And it swallows me whole. 

I wake up miserable, of course (who wouldn’t?). It’s way too early for most Inquisition business, but… Well, Leliana will be up, obviously, and she’s the one I really have to talk to anyways. So of course I storm into her nook at an ungodly speed, and of course she’s already there, calmly passing over her letters as always. 

“Leliana?” I call. 

“Yes, Inquisitor?”

“I was just going to check… It’s been bothering me all night. You did do a background check on Sathrian, right?” I try to look as innocent as possible, despite the fact that it is just before sunrise and I have no business being here right now, and she chuckles. 

“Do not worry, Rasuvian. Not all of his ‘holdings’ may be clean, but I know about them. Extensively.” 

“And you’ve verified his claims? They’re pretty lofty.”

“Of course. I’m gathering reports. If I may ask, why does this bother you so much?”

“No reason, in particular,” I let my cheeks color slightly, “But, as Sera said, there’s something shifty about him, don’t you think?” 

“Have some trust in me, Herald.” She smiles. Crap. I can’t have her suspecting me, not more than she already is. 

“It’s… It’s just that. Well, this’ll sound silly,” I stammer. She looks at me expectantly. “It’s just that… My clan used to travel a lot. And we’d avoid the cities, of course, but not as much as the other clans, and we traded with them. A lot. Sathrian… he just reminds me of this urban legend we developed.”

“You’re basing your judgement off of myth?” The color I get in my cheeks is only semi-faked. Which is good. Looking weak like this, apologetic like this, is good. 

“There’s an elf who controls most of the underground trade, in pretty much everything. They say. And other things. Though he must be mostly based in Orlais, not Ferelden, and it’s not quite right… We call him Haurav’ingala. Because they say… they say his teeth glow golden in the dark.” 

Leliana quirks an eyebrow, ever so slightly. “Sathrian only has one gold tooth. In the very back.” Well-observed, Nightingale. “And you have to understand, we have a lot of different people helping the Inquisition, Rasuvian, and Sathrian is far from the worst, even with the few criminal holdings he has.” Yes, I want to mutter, but that’s not even his real _name_. She has to know that, right? But then, of course, she would have to know about my name as well; would she have approached me by now if she knew? Is this our own Game we are playing here? I realize, suddenly, that this is the Nightingale I am crossing right now. Wings of black, eyes of storm, practically a legend, or as close as one can get nowadays. As Varric would say: well, crap. 

“…the Ben-Hassarath. Not to mention Solas, who barely has any discernible past at all. One would think he’s been hiding out in the Vimmaeh Mountains for the past thousand years.” She smiles at me, done with the report I had barely listened to. 

“Hah. Of course.” That’s impossible…Wait. I muster another smile. “I’m sorry; I feel pretty silly now. Thank you for indulging me, Leliana.”

“A pleasure, Inquisitor,” she says but I’m barely even listening to her as I turn towards the stairs. The past thousand years… it couldn’t actually mean a thousand years, could it? I travel down the stairs, passing one doorway, another, landing on the rotunda’s. Solas is already there; it’s barely dawn, even, and he’s already there.

Of course. Who needs more sleep after a rest that long? 

Because suddenly it all makes sense. I remember the Ancient Elvhes we found at the Temple of Mythal, just a week or so ago: shaved heads and angular faces and eyes so, so clear, clear in ways that no other being’s could be. I see Solas, turning to look at me, becoming expectant now, his eyes that impossible gliding blue. “I have journeyed deep into the Fade” my ass, who else could know so much about ancient history, ancient magic, Ancient Elvhen, ancient everything when he’s as ancient as they come. That unplaceable accent. Those words. His gaze. 

“…Inquisitor?” he calls again, confusion still hemmed in by his steely professionalism. How long had I been standing there, just trying to piece it all together at last?

“Solas.” It doesn’t matter. “I… I don’t know. How I couldn’t have seen it before.” A stupid opening, to be sure. I can feel the tears welling up now. 

He clears his throat, “If this is about the other night-“

“I must be so absolutely _disgusting_. To you,” I hoarsely whisper, interrupting him, actually, physically interrupting him, each word falling heavy from my lips. 

“If I have ever given you cause to believe that, Inquisitor, I deeply apologize.”

“I must be…” I take a deep breath, try to get my thoughts flowing again, step towards him. “How old are you, Solas? How long did you sleep? How-” I cut off; being this direct feels wrong, too open, like someone could snatch me away at any moment, and a heavy silence fills the unfinished question. I’m standing in front of his desk, now, and he’s gone absolutely rigid, retreated somewhere deep inside. 

He bows his head down. Thinking. I hate not being able to see his face. 

“Is that why you did it, then?” I break the silence. “I can’t imagine what it’s like. To see the world. To see the Dalish, really, after…” I break the silence, only momentarily, because he’s still there, bent over, muscles tensing and untensing in his shoulders. 

“No,” he finally says it, quiet but clear, “No. You don’t disgust me.”

“Did I ever?”

He looks up at me. “Rasuvian…” And on his face is such a look of sheer pain that I just shake my head and step away. 

“Rasuvian, please do not think that the circumstances of your birth could have anything to do with my mistake.”

“Your mistake.”

“It was… ill-conceived. For me to do what I did. Please do not believe that it was any fault of your own,” he pauses, emphasizes, “You don’t disgust me.” The last phrase he utters softly, too tenderly, too much like he means it. I won’t let it throw me. 

“But my people do, don’t they? The People do?” His brow furrows in pain. “You can’t ignore it. I’m just some Dalish quick-blood, is that it, who happened to be pretty enough to tempt your sacred attentions?” 

There’s too many incongruous pieces here, too many sharp bits, too many places where they don’t fit together. And it all hurts, Venuralasin, does it hurt. He opens his mouth to say something, but stops, reconsiders. 

“If that is what is easiest for you to believe, then yes.” 

What an ass. “Mistake,” my ass. Dalish, my ass.

“Dread Wolf take you, Solas. Fen’Harel ver na i nuva is bora sule uthaan anbanal. Dread Wold fucking take you.” And I leave. 

**_ELV(H)EN GUIDE:_ **

Ir inas: _ir_ (I) + _inas_ (live) = I am alive

Anbanal: The Void, clearly 

Haurav’ingala: _haur_ (gold) + _av’inga_ (teeth, plural) = goldenteeth, pretty literal 

Fen’Harel ver na i nuva is bora sule uthaan anbanal: _Fen’Harel_ \+ _ver na_ (take you) + _i_ (and) + _nuva_ (wish, implied “I”) + _is_ (he) + _bora_ (throws) + _sule_ (into) + _uthaan anbanal_ (eternal void) = Dread Wold take you and (I hope) he casts you into the eternal void

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ras is a dang fool. I'm starting to love her more and more.
> 
> PATCH NOTES:   
> Edit 1: caught Solas using one too many contractions. Whoops.


	6. Speak of the Devil: Ch. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does one get over a breakup in a healthy manner? By kicking the shit out of a load of demons, of course!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha so 1. yes I realize I semi-abandoned this work yes I've started another DAI work no I don't know what my plan will be moving forward. I really want to focus on that work more now because I have Ideas but I also know how shitty it is to write 4 chapters of a fic and then leave it to die. 
> 
> Also 2. CW for this chapter as there is some pretty heavy violence. Minimal human/elf harm but a couple of demons get really fucked up. If you want to avoid it, skip over the first section, read through the bit with Sera, then skip some more (at least skip the bit where Ras opens the rift) and then resume at the paragraph that begins with "Peering inside the rift." I've updated tags accordingly.

Ripping into the terror demon feels _good._ Incredible, really. I can see it trying to get away, jump back underneath to pop out somewhere else, to wrest itself out of my control. But there’s no way, no fucking way that I’m letting it slip outside my grasp as I lodge the hooked end of my chain into its chest, using my magic to cement it tight. It’s been so long since I’ve had a fight like this, since I’ve been able to loop cold iron around a demon’s midsection, to pull it sharply to the side and watch its center of mass shift ever-so-slightly to the side, a moment that I exploit the Void out of. Bearing down with all of my weight, I push it down to the ground, where I pin it beneath me and strike at it with the full length of my dagger, hacking at its stinking flesh with a magical edge. Demon ichor covers my knife and my hands, some even sprays up to my nose, but I don’t care; there’s something about the satisfying feeling of rending flesh, about the way the terror demon tries to unhinge its jaw to let out a scream below me, that keeps me going. Usually I wouldn’t like fighting like this, like it was a full-contact sport, but today I don’t care. 

With a final tug of my bloodied dagger, I feel the body beneath me go limp, and suddenly I realize that the rest of the party has stilled, done fighting, now just watching me in awe. 

“Maker, Ras,” Varric rumbles, “You okay?”

“Fine,” I practically spit back, still panting heavily, and then stand up to close the rift above me once and for all. 

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Boss,” Iron Bull comes up to clap me on the shoulder, “That terror demon didn’t know what hit him.”

“Thanks, Bull.” I lean down to wipe my knives off on the grass, hands shaking only a little, the blood still coursing in my veins. “So where’s this fabled time rift we have to get to?”

“Easy there, tiger. Don’t you think we should rest first?” Varric questions. 

“Right. Let’s return to camp. That’s a better idea.”

We’re out somewhere in the Free Marches, practically in the middle of nowhere, really, even though I _know_ that “Sathrian” has holdings in far more central locations across all of Thedas. I made a point of leaving extra scouts on watch back at Skyhold, regardless; you never know what he might be up to, putting us though this wild fennec chase. I almost didn’t want to go myself, just send a few forward scouts and whoever I feel like seeing less of for the next month or so - Solas, for one - instead, but Josephine and Leliana insisted. 

“So, no lectures on Elvhen glory this trip then?” Sera comes up next to me as we arrive back at camp, and I separate from the rest to go wash myself off in a nearby stream. 

“Nope.” I let the water run over my face, scrubbing the dirt and blood and grime off of it. I imagine I can still feel the empty lines of where my vallas’lin used to be, ghosts of a former self, stripped away to leave the naked skin beneath. 

“I’ve been seeing a lot less of Mr. Elvhen Glory himself lately.”

“Funny how that works.” I scrub my daggers next, careful around the edges. 

“Things are going smashing, then?”

I pause for a moment, letting the cool water run over my fingers as I try to figure out what “smashing” actually means in Sera’s vocabulary. 

Apparently the pause is a touch too long, because she cuts right back in, “Don’t think I don’t notice you drooping around the castle lately, Razzie. ‘S no good.”

Well now I’m _really_ not going to say anything. She sighs. 

“All I’m’s saying is, he doesn’t deserve even two ounce of anything, right, and you’re worth at least ten.” I can’t help laughing at that, and Sera pounces on it right away, “See? You’re doing better already. Better than him, anyway, and the stick up his butt.”

I keep laughing. At least I can always depend on Sera. 

When we finally arrive at one of Sathrian’s outposts, the sky begins to darken. There’s an attendant there, waiting for us, all uniformed and the very picture of professionalism. I can barely hide the scowl on my face. 

Surprisingly, she doesn’t lead us to the nearby mine, as I had expected. Instead, she leads us through the small mining town that’s grown nearby, tittering as she spins us some story about a “small market operation” on the fringe of this “humble miner’s settlement.” As if “Sathrian,” as if Haurav’ingala, doesn’t implicitly own the whole thing, mine and all, and probably all of the surrounding land for miles to go as well. She leads us through a maze of scaffolding and long shadows cast by torchlights until we come across a tall, stone building. 

“An abandoned silo,” she explains, “We don’t usually let anyone inside because we fear it might collapse at any second. But the local kids still like to play in it, you understand, and then they stumbled across this…”

She leads us inside, and before us… Is a rift. An actual, honest-to-Mythal rift, shining green in the dimness of the tower. But something about it is different, and as I come closer I realize that it’s almost like a mirror, except the picture it is reflecting… Isn’t my own. I reach a hand up towards it, watch the green energy begin to flicker between the mark and the rift-

“I wouldn’t do that, please, if I were you,” the attendant squeaks, but it’s too late. A demon tumbles out of the rift, yes, but it’s not like any demon I’ve ever seen. It grows tall over us, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve somehow called a Revenant from the Fade; but no, its eyes glow blue, not red, and the cold metal of its armor seems so much crueler, its impossibly wide greatsword menace materialized. Everything about it seems to gleam with an impossible, black light as it settles before us, its eyes trained on me. 

“Crap, Boss, what did you have to do that for?” Iron Bull roars as he hoists his double-bearded axe. The demon’s greatsword begins to rise. 

“It’s going to come at me, I think,” I shout back, “I’ll deflect, and you all rush it. And that’s an order.” And suddenly the sword is crashing down towards me, and I do my best to dodge out of the way, hoping that the rest are not too tired to put up a good fight. The demon’s movements are heavy, measured, and slow, but I also get the feeling that just one blow from its weapon will leave me severely injured, if not dead. As I scramble to dodge one attack after another, my mind keeps circling back to the same question: what in the Void even is this thing? And why is it only coming at me?

This game continues for several minutes, and pretty soon I start losing breath. The rest of the party may be putting up a good fight - the steadily repeating thud of Iron Bull’s axe hitting the demon’s armor is infinitely satisfying - but it doesn’t seem to be enough. I mutter one last curse, throw out one more prayer, and unsheathe my daggers. 

Now, instead of just dodging the demon’s attacks, I set myself on hurting it as much as possible. I weave underneath its sword, swiping at its bottom half; I swing myself around its legs to thrust at its abdomen; I even manage, at one point, to slash at its wrist with the edge of my blade. All this only seems to fuel its anger more, pushing it towards a heightened state of frenzy, the threatening weight of its blade passing mere inches over my body, then closer, then even closer, and then, with the slightest misstep on my part, it pins my shoulder underneath its blade. I cry out, flattened onto my back, feeling the metal brutally cut into my flesh, pass through muscle and fat. Barely even thinking, processing anything above the white-hot pain in my arm anymore, I wrap my hand around its wrist and pull it down towards me, staring back into the hollow blue light of its eyes. With a visceral grunt, I let my all of my mana accumulate around my blade, sharpening it into a fine, elongated point, and then thrust it wildly up into the demon’s face. There’s a satisfying pop as I pass through Elgar’nan-knows-what objects of the demon’s anatomy, and an even more satisfying wet click as I twist the blade. 

The demon shudders, still staring dully down at me, the darkness behind its helm mere inches from my face, and then goes still. A long trickle of ichor seeps out from behind the helmet, drips onto my own bloodier shoulder. I hear Bull pull his axe out of the demon’s back half somewhere, and then his heavy footsteps rushing towards me. 

“Hey, Rasuvian?” He calls.

“Still here, Bull.”

With a grunt, he helps me push the demon’s corpse off to the side, where it lands with dull, metallic thud. Bull offers his shoulder, and I hang onto his arm as he helps me up, where I weakly move to close the rift. 

“Look,” I falter, “the rift, it’s…”

“It really is bending time,” Varric finishes. 

Peering inside the rift, I watch as a cacophony of images unfolds, jumping maddeningly from moment to moment. At one moment, there I am, disturbing the rift and releasing the demon, then the glassy surface of the rift flickers wildly and suddenly the image changes completely. There’s an army, of Grey Wardens it seems, marching towards some unknown destination… There’s a young elven girl, stealing through the alleyways of some shem city, her ears twitching with fear. The images keep flickering, and for a moment my blood runs cold, because I swear to all of the Evanuris and beyond that, for the briefest moment, I see Solas. His hair is long here, elaborately braided and swept back from his face, but it’s the same face alright. Perhaps a bit smoother, a little less worn with age, his gaze even sharper and the sharp twist of his jaw well-defined. I can’t quite see the colors exactly, not in the dim green of the Fade, but something tells me that his hair is a deep, russet gold, that it glows like spun copper in the sunlight, that even in the shade it is a warm ochre yellow that seems to shimmer with its own light. He had been wearing rich clothing, carefully draped robes and furs, his expression so proud…

“Hurry up and close the damn thing already,” Bull wrinkles his nose and hoists me up higher, “I get a headache just looking at it.”

“Right.” I thrust my hand towards it, trying to forget about that image of Solas as I watch the rift flicker and knit itself back together again. The inside of the dark goes almost completely dark as Bull lets me back down onto the ground with a soft grunt. The dull ache in my shoulder sings, and I (regrettably) look down to see that my leather jacket is completely soaked with blood. 

“Oh Maker,” the attendant behind us swoons. 

“Well, I don’t know about you guys,” I manage, “but I am definitely not going to be sober an hour from now.” 

**_ELV(H)EN GUIDE:  
_** Elgar’nan: Elvhen God of Vengeance, All-Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo so really considering a Sera/Lavellan interlude next chapter, yes/no thoughts?
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading <3


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